Bon. " The spinsters stared at her blankly. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. ” He hesitated, and walked away from her toward the house. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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